As Dieter thrust himself into her, Janice thrust her self into his soul, planting herself deep within him. After recovering from their love making on the floor of the viewing room Janice gathered up her robe and Dieters Key card. She went to her changing room and showered, rudely turning  any inquisitive emotions from her fellow performers and stage managers into trepidation, no one dared ask her any questions, not right now.

Janice threw on a flowing robe searched though her change room and found a razor blade.

Now Dieter was a part of her and she a part of him. It was time for Dieter to learn what that meant...

Janice threw out the tongue of her mind and tasted her paramours soul waiting, no doubt plotting, in his apartment.  With one swift stroke she slashed her arm from elbow to wrist, cutting deeply into her veins, making sure Dieter felt every single moment just as vividly as she did.

As her blood rushed out on the floor she put Dieters soul into the mouth of her mind and started to suck. Dieters life force into her, her life force bleeding out onto the floor the two of them locked in a mutual death spiral as she refused to let his life force heal her arm, only sustain her from loosing consciousness altogether. As the two of them neared death both clinging to the last sparks of life she finally allowed her arm to heal and fumbled for the house phone...

Her voice a cracked whisper as she slumped to the floor.

"Hello front desk, please get put me through to room 3231...

Dieter, my love... I'm sorry but you were the one who needed to see... to feel.. to know.. we are one now my love, my life is yours and yours is mine... Hurting me hurts you and hurting you hurts me and when one of us ends so will the other... Tell me what you want me to do my sweet, I am yours now and forever just as you are mine."

As Janice spoke she reached out to the souls all around her and started to draw life force fractionally from the thousands of people in the hotel within 100 yards of her. Making her stronger, faster more durable, hundreds of times stronger than a normal person, just in case Dieter decided to act rashly....

[OOC] Dieter let me know if you want this to be another non cannon battle post. Janice does not need los for her powers, and she has exceptional range with souls she knows intimately. She is indeed lying to Dieter that her death will cause his, but the illusion should be near perfect as she can perfectly protect her suicide attempt and tie it to her bio drain of him. [/OOC]
This message was last edited by the player at 13:59, Fri 26 June 2015.

Dieter had made it back to his study and was siting in his office when a call was transferred in from his private quarters. He listened as she spoke and let the wave of nausea and pain flow over him. His arm was afire and it felt like something was scrabbling at his spine from within his gut. The pain was excruciating, it was terrifying, and it was exquisite. It was nothing compared to the emotional and psychological torment that washed over him as he set the phone down. He had felt a surge of something just at the end as well.

He wallowed in the sensations for a while, enjoying the luxury of allowing his emotions a bit of free reign. Eventually, that freedom would end. Janice was gravely, gravely mistaken if she thought his death would stop hers. His eyes moved slowly, almost preciently to his more secure phone as it did the impossible. The phone was set up to send calls only; it could only receive calls if it was acivated by his boss. So, that it rang meant his boss was calling and that mant only one thing could be true. The organization was threatened directly somehow. He hesitated for a few moments then answered, "Sir? Yes, sir. Confirmed: Update log #1, Lillith has landed in Las Vegas. Yes. Yes. Yes. I understand. It is not a threat yet. No. Yes. No. Weekly, sir. No. Affirmative. Eros protocols confimed. Opening Log #1980, codename Syndie."

Dieter hung up the phone and sighed and got up. He walked slowly toward yhe alartment he had set up for their shared use and left the waves of anguish and pain roll over him. Her range was impressive and if she was mo itlring him, she would sense that he felt he had betrayed her. His love for her was as potent as any emotion Dieter could feel, but it had not stopped him of course. The part of him that hated and loved himself was still his core and his love for her wrestled with that but found only eaual footing, which many his habits and he protocols the organization had put in place overrules the love. Besides, what more exquisite torture existed than betraying a loved one?

He puttered around the apartment enjoying a high ball and telaxing as he considered the situation. Her range was large and her a ility to control him potent now that she had access. He kept his perceptions fialed way down to interfere az much as possible with her meddling and sent off several itreversible orders. Eros protocols were rare but iron lad from on high.

Janice was panicked.

"He did not care! I led him the edge of death, made him believe my life was tied to his, made him LOVE ME, and still he did not care! I'm dead, I'm going to die! Dieter is going to kill me!"

Janice threw on her clothes and used her enhanced physical abilities to race out of the hotel, out of the strip and out of town, desperately trying to feel all the emotions of everyone around her trying to discern if anyone was trying to kill her (What does an assassin feel just before a kill? How could she be sure? Maybe a lack of emotion or hatred, or arousal for all she knew..)

Hitching a ride (she dare not take even a bus) was easy with her powers, as was mooching hand outs and meals from strangers. Begging and few dollars for some cheap hair dye. The news was full of events in Chicago. Mayor kidnapped, hundreds killed. Maybe if she could meet another gifted, someone with real power who could protect her. It was all she could think of doing. That and trying every day not to reach out and taste him, like a junky refusing a fix. Dieter on her mind, every second of every hour like a syringe of purist heroin, just at her finger tips. She held out, she did not reach out to him again during the long road trip to Chicago. Yet she knew she would not last forever, she was hooked on him and one day soon she would not be able to resist.


------------------->

A small casino in Vegas. At one of the tables inside, a big-shot daddy's boy is boasting about his skills in Poker. No-one can beat me, I'm the champion, yadda yadda ya. Then a younger man steps out of the folks around the table. He's tall, at 6 clear feet, dressed in a black Armani suit, black shirt, black tie, even a black beret on his head. He looks like a Borderlands 2 character, tall, bony, and wrapped in muscle. Like a chicken leg. Weird analogy, sure, but it was scary to the men and hot to the women. He sits down across from him and sets down a tray of chips, totaling at about ten thousand dollars. It's easy to see he's been watching, waiting for a moment. He looks up, and the casino lights seem dull compared to the pale flash of white that is his hair. His face is scarred all over, looking like he'd tortured with a belt sander. And tried to eat it. And succeeded. And then, gone back for seconds with the gears! His eyes look like the irises are full of blood, a vibrant red.

"You would not BELIEVE the week I've had." He says to a young lady in a sparkly blue dress, standing beside him. "Everywhere I go, people are in a hurry. Except Vegas. It's nice. People enjoying the moment." He smiles at her, flirtatiously. "You know what I mean?"

A cough from the man across the table makes him turn his head. While he was talking, the dealer had given them their hands. The younger man rolled his eyes. "How rude." He picked up his pocket cards and gave them a glance. His expression was actually bored. The man across from him said, just to make small talk as he put down the little blind, "So, who would you be?"

"Kane. Who wants to know?" His tone implied that he didn't actually have the shits to give, regarding his name. He tosses in the big blind.

The man frowns. "Alan, and my father owns this casino, so watch the mouth."

"Right." He says dully. "Can we get on with this? I have better people to steal from than you." He jokes, eliciting a laugh from the folks watching.

The dealer lays down a Jack, a 10, and an 8. Alan looks at his hand. A Jack and a 2. Looking good. "Call." He adds another $200.

Without checking his cards, Kane says. "Raise." and throws in $400. The players checked. The dealer lays out another Jack.

Alan's poker face was strained. He wanted to laugh right now. He had three of a kind. This was in the bag. "Call."

"Raise." Kane says again, doubling the bet again.

Alan could barely contain his smile. This idiot was trying to bluff him out. Not happening. "Check."

Kane nods. "Check." He sits back in his seat, his face devoid of any interest.

The final card dropped. It's a 9. Alan turns over his cards. "Three of a kind." He declares. "How about that?" The smug grin on his face is almost sickening.

Kane looks up and grins like a wolf, turning over a 7 and a 9.
"Straight. You lose, asshole." Kane remarks, scraping the chips over to his side.

Alan was dumbfounded. How did he START with a flush? "Nice trick," He says, recovering his arrogance. "But it won't happen again."

"How much you gonna bet on that?" Kane asked, tossing in the chips for the little blind.

"We'll see." Alan scoffs.

The dealer threw down the cards. Two aces. One 4. Alan looked at his cards. Two fours. That's a full house. "Raise."

Kane doesn't miss a beat. "Call." The fourth card hits. An Ace. Dear god.

Alan calls. Kane says slowly,
"ALL IN."

Alan's eyes widen. Why would he go all in unless...? No. He had the last ace? That would destroy him. He couldn't.

"Fold." He says. "Not dealing with that."

Kane smiles and turns his cards over and begins scraping the chips over. His hand had a two and a six.

The crowd bursts into laughter and mild applause.
"Oh my god!"
"Classic!"
"Nigga whut?"
"Bruh!"
Etc.

"You wanna keep going?" Kane teased. His face was lit with pleasure.

Alan gritted his teeth. "Yes." The cards were dealt. A Queen, nine and ten. Alan had a 6 and a 7. He relaxed.
The next card hit once they'd each checked. A king. He tensed again.
"All in."
"All in." Alan replied. It had to be another bluff.
Kane's head hung when he saw the last card. Alan's brain exploded into fireworks.
The last card that hit was a Jack.
Kane places his cards down. An ace and a Jack. They matched the suit of the king, queen and ten. Royal Flush of Spades.

Everyone started laughing, cheering, and screaming all at once.

"Alright, I'm going to get that in cash and go to my suite to plow the redhead."

The brunette girl in the blue dress widened her eyes. "How did you--?"

"Honey," Kane says, standing up with his chips, "I'm a foot taller than you and your roots are showing. Meet me at the Presidential, I'm going to go wash my hands."

The man stood and left the table. Alan fumed. He leaned over towards his disguised security men and gestured for them to follow.

***

In the bathroom, Alan and his bodyguards found him doing exactly what he said, washing his hands.

"Sorry kiddo." Alan said as he and his guards drew silenced guns. "but you're not walking off with my fifty grand. so you can hand the money to--"

Kane whirled around and a storm of silent bullets shredded his jacket. He stumbled back, about to fall.

But he didn't. He shifted his weight and stopped his collapse. "Whoa! Goddamn!" He shook his head and undid his jacket.

"What in the goddam--" Alan began.

Suddenly, Kane's eyes turned into colorless marbles and the room around them grew dark and cold, like a vacuum had formed around Kane. The veins that crawled up his neck and acros his hands darkened to pitch-black, and the three men felt a tug, as though a fishing line had yanked at their hearts. they fell to the floor, clawing at their bodies to find the source of it and remove the pain.

"it's over." Kane said, his voice echoing in their very souls as he dragged them from their bodies. "YOU. ARE. MINE!!" He crowed, and with that, the vortex stopped and the men dropped dead.

Kane smiled like a snake at the dead men. Suddenly, he sneezed, barely catching it in his hands.

"ACHOO! Oh, Goddammit, now I've got to wash these again!" He says. Funnily, he seemed to prioritize that over his destroyed blazer. Once he'd washed up, he stole the jacket off a bodyguard and left the washroom as it was, taking the elevator up to the Presidential suite.

He had better things to screw than a couple of lives.

In the Presidential Suite, Kane stepped out of the shower, drying his hair and bothering with nothing else. Every scar he had was polished like a knife, even reflecting a little of the light. Which was a surprise, considering he could see the dead girl in his shower. He felt a little giddy at the sight of it. He was pleased that he'd been able to mask the devouring of her soul with the rough, destructive sex they'd been having for the past 3 straight hours. She'd been dead for the last hour or so. He combed his hair around until it was its usual messy swirl, like a white version of his vortex. He flexed at himself and smiled at what he saw. Then he walked over to the giant, heart-shaped bed in the bedroom, the same size as the shower he was just in. He took the roughed up Kevlar jumpsuit he'd been wearing lately and slipped into it, slapping his fancier clothes on top of it. He'd had his break, it was time to start killing shit.

He made way for the elevator, leaving his beret on the girl's head.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:51, Wed 09 Sept 2015.

"This is not what I was expecting you guys to do." Kane admitted to the sixteen employees pointing guns at him. Around him, a set of hidden, steel security doors had dropped, everyone in the room except for the people who worked at the casino had moved to the opposite side of the enclosed space as him.

"I was legitimately expecting screaming and running." He twirled one of the kunai-like knives in his hands. "You think you're prepared for me," His arm comes up and she scratches the side of his head with the edge of one knife. It's so casual that they never see the other hand throw until one of the men drops his gun to clutch at the gaping slash in his jugular. That moment of distraction is all he needs.

Flipping a roulette table onto the one next to him, Kane lunged for the nearest other ones, slashing through one's chest and spinning a full 180 to shatter the other one's nose before finishing him with a stab through the eye. Taking his gun from him, Kane fired with expert aim at the next six of his enemies, nailing a skull or throat every time.

That's when the other 7 men started firing.

Bullets essentially rained on him, tearing through his jacket and pants repeatedly. One bullet hits directly in the side of his head, and blood sprays across the wall beside him as he drops like an anvil.

There's a few moments of silence. Then one of the men pulls out his phone and dials a number. "Hello?" He says, turning away. "Yes I'd like to report a..."

At that moment, Kane stood up, his spine convulsing wildly as, to the horror of the onlookers, every synapse in his brain rewove itself, every splinter of bone branched into more, repairing his skull in a moment, and the flesh bubbled like it was rotting, settling into a layer of fresh scar tissue. He turned to the and smiled, dropping his knife.

"You really. REALLY AREN'T." He says, reaching out to the remaining men and grabbing the nearest one. Every visible vein swelled and turned black on Kane's body, and black smoke began to swirl around him like a vortex, the man screaming as his body was separated from something incredibly vital, as though his heart was being torn from his chest in slow motion. His eyes rolled back and he hung limply from the end of Kane's arm, lifeless.

The man with the phone turned. His eyes widened. "Oh shit. Never mind, Call the ITSDA now, we have a--"

BANG!

The man's last gasp sounds like a maraca. He drops his phone and crumples to the floor like a puppet with it's strings cut. Kane's grin could split concrete as he throws the gun he took off of the man he was holding over his shoulder.

"You see, these walls didn't trap me in here with you..." He drops the man and the ground under his feet begins to smoke as he tore and shook the remainder of his blazer and shirt from his chest, the Kevlar suit becoming visible, which in turn revealed the prominent assortment of functional muscle he possessed.

"You're trapped here with me."

(OOC: How the ITSDA reacts, if at all, is up to y'all. Going dark.)
This message was last edited by the player at 17:13, Wed 16 Sept 2015.

In reply to Kane Isaiah Armani (msg # 41):

In a seedy motel on the outskirts of Southern Las Vegas, a small van pulled up and deposited 4 men and a woman, who promptly went into room 15 and shut and lucked the door. The blinds were closed, the curtains were drawn, and moments later, it looked exactly as it had before the van had pulled up. Inside the room, Squad 11 was sitting around looking uncomfortable. The Central Conditioning didn't seem to be working properly, and the temperature in their room was barely hovering around 85.

"Alright, what we've got so far." Said Squad Leader Harry Jung, who glanced around at his team. "Kane is here, in the South Point Hotel and Casino. He's been sealed in, and we've shut off all the amenities to the building. No power, water, heat, or conditioning. We don't know how long he'll be stuck, so this briefing is going to be short." He glanced at the lone woman, who was the only one not dressed in the ITSDA uniform, and nodded his head at her. She nodded back and stood up. "My name is Mary Cowan. I'm an attache to your Squad for this mission, in direct response to Kane's dangerous power. I do not work for ITSDA, but they have contracted me out for this mission. I have a personal vendetta against this man, and I'm more than happy to assist in either the capture, or the... neutralization of Kane." She sat back down and continued speaking. "My power is referred to as 'The Dollhouse.' Everyone in this room will remain here for the entirety of the mission. I, however, will create, in essence, dolls of yourself that you will control manually. The process can be complicated, but it's the only safe way allow you all to physically manifest anywhere near that man and survive the experience."

"These dolls are imperfect replicas, however. They have no thoughts or abilities of their own. Your Gifts will be copied over, but they won't always manifest in the same fashion. I don't understand the reasoning, but sometimes they're more powerful, and sometimes they're weaker. Sometimes they don't copy over at all. Sometimes you get Gifts that you didn't have before. The process seems to be random, even when repeated on the same individual multiple times. If these Dolls die, you will feel the pain. Kane's gift will be greatly weakened because only a small fragment of your... soul will be in the dolls, but he can still drain them. There is, however, no link between these dolls and your full soul. If the dolls die, or have their souls drained, you will lose some of your capabilities for a short time. The more powerful the original gift, the longer it will take for those parts of you to heal." She stopped talking, and stared around the room coldly. "Am I clear?"

The Squad echoed out "Yes Ma'am," and she stood up and walked around the lot of them, telling them to lie down and make themselves comfortable. A few minutes later, Squad 11 walked out of the Motel Room and the door was again closed and sealed. Another van pulled up and drove them to the Hotel and Casino that Kane was in. They arranged themselves in front of the front door after forcing all the other personnell that had shown up to leave the premises. After a moment passed, and some silent signals went between the Squad Leader and the local enforcement, the security sealing on the front door lifted, and the 4 men stood at the ready.

(OOC: Just a note, I'm changing Kane's text color.)

Non-Canon Battle Post

The room was silent, except for the breathing of the other Gifted. Kane wasted no time, relaxing his legs and drawing his knives as he dropped from the chandelier with an ominous jingling sound.

Both knives dug into the shoulders of the soldier in the back of the group, and Kane fell into a standing position immediately, using the knives to both disable his arms and hold him between himself and the other agents.
"Aggh!" David screamed, his arms locked in place by the blades. The three other soldiers whirled around to see Kane smile like a snake. "YOLO!" He whoops.

There's a brief period of silence at that, except for David's grunts of pain as the white-haired Gifted dragged him into a better position.

Flames swirled up from around Harry, lighting up the room better. Tyler choked audibly.
Every inch of the floor was soaked. And from the way red stains crawled up the soldiers shoes, it was obviously blood. There were innumerable corpses littering the floor and tables, some slashed up like a Friday the 13th extra, others mysteriously lifeless.

"You see that? That's exactly what I'm going to be doing to each of you in a moment."

Tyler suddenly blurred, appearing behind Kane, putting a gun to his head. "Alright, you sick bastard. Playtime's over."

Kane's knives tore through flesh and bone in one pull, shattering David's shoulder blades with ease as he jumped and kicked Tyler in the face. Both men fell, but the force of the kick sent Kane a few feet forward, where he landed and threw one of the knives backwards. It missed Tyler, based on the lack of death noises, but he was fine with that. He stepped forward and was immediately assaulted by a brief jet of flame from Harry.

Reeling from the pain, Kane dropped the other knife and fell to the ground. The flames seared him, but it wasn't life-threatening, not in the least. He turned back, skin crawling back across his face, and reached out, pure blackness crawling out of his veins as a vortex burst from his arm, grabbing hold of the squad's leader. The flames began to flicker and spread randomly across the carpet, creating a noxious smell as blood and fire and carpet melded. Standing back up, He grabbed the man by his throat and began to suck the life from him with relish.

Henry took a deep breath, slashing his hand through the air, and Kane's arm was gone. His vortex swirled to a stop and Harry fell to the floor, coughing and dry heaving.

Kane stared at the arm, feeling the pain, feeling that his arm truly was gone. and he seemed curious as to why it wasn't regrowing. He turned to look at Henry and growled. "You don't amuse me." He decided. "How about I kill you first, so your brother can watch as he bleeds?"

The illusion faded, Henry stumbled back in horror, and Kane's arm returned in full. He grinned. "Gotcha!" The Vortex lunged out from his body and wrapped the agent in its embrace. In the few seconds he had before the life was torn from his friend, Tyler shifted over and tried to grab him, to pull Kane off, but it was no use. Henry Duvet crashed to the floor, cold and dead.

Kane felt a crack, and suddenly, his neck was in the wrong position. He dropped, unable to move.
"Ahh! Ow, owowow! What the hell, man? Kane's neck clicked back into position, taking several tries to do it properly, and he stood, massaging it. "Dick move, Tyler. Dick move." He looked at the remainder of the squad Both of them were standing between Kane and the bleeding lump on the floor. He grinned. "Fire and speed will hardly help you at this point. He points out to them.

Both men drew machine pistols.

"Oh, well that might." He admits, just before stepping aside, where he disappeared, seamlessly creating a replica of him where he stood. A storm of bullets began to rip through the illusion, turning it's upper torso and head into mush.

Stepping around them while Harry torched the 'corpse' with twin jets of flame, Kane placed his hand on the dying brother of Henry and reappeared as he sucked the last of David's life force away in a few moments. Then he walked up next to them and tapped them both on the shoulders.

The flames stopped as the two soldiers looked at each other, thinking the other had tapped them. Kane's fists crashed into each of them, breaking Tyler's jaw like a twig. He stepped on Henry's fallen pistol and knocked it up high enough for him to grab it and get a hold of the handle. Without half looking, he fired off the whole clip at Tyler, who was too dazed to dodge properly, and ended up ramming into a table.

Suddenly, an immense pillar of flame tore through Kane, pinning him to the floor. The pain that washed over him was exquisite, in his mind. lashing out, the power he'd stolen from David triggered, and the flames stopped and reversed, drowning their user in their embrace. Kane's blackened body began to repair itself as the man was crushed by his own flames, his screams no louder than the whoosh of fire as he tried to force it away.

Sitting up, he turned to the last man alive, Tyler, and crawled over, grabbing him by the head as the very skin of his fingers peeled off, revealing fresh scales underneath that swelled with blood and muscle as his body refilled itself.

"Get off me, you monster!" Tyler screamed, properly terrified. the whoel squad had been dispatched in mere minutes before him, and all Kane did was smile as the darkness began to deepen and the flames that tortured their leader died out.

"Guess what?" Kane asked, his grin excessively wide, as his cheeks were gone.

"What?" Tyler asked, breathing heavy.

As the cold claw of Kane's vortex wrapped itself around him and tore the life from him, he said, almost too eager to answer,

"Chicken butt."

Kane looked pleased with himself, until he pieced together the little fragments of knowledge he'd acquired from his kills. The Dollhouse. And survive the experience. Fragments.

"Oh, you sonsabitches. You can't flim-flam the zim-zam!" Screwing up the willpower, Kane created an illusory bomb and guided it using David's ability, reversing the power of the Dollhouse to project the ability into the motel room, where it flooded everyone there with the pain of every injury Kane could remember, enough to make anyone go insane at the briefest feeling.
The bodies of the agents vanished as he felt it go off.

Then, knowing that while he couldn't find or kill them, he'd reduced a squad of agents optimized to try and kill him to madness, he was satisfied. He  picked his wallet ou of his wrecked suit and put on one of the staff's  spare suits, walking straight out of the building, where he found nobody to oppose him. He scoffed. "Smooth." He proceeded to hail a taxi and make his way where he was best.

Off the radar.
This message was last edited by the player at 22:09, Sun 20 Sept 2015.

In reply to Kane Isaiah Armani (msg # 43):

The room was silent, except for the breathing of the other Gifted. Kane wasted no time, relaxing his legs and drawing his knives as he dropped from the chandelier with an ominous jingling sound.

The man he'd positioned himself over burst into a fireball the instant his blades cut through cloth and hit the flesh, and he was thrown against the wall with a sharp crack that resounded throughout the room. When he shook off the dizziness and the minor burns faded from the skin visible through the scraps of clothing, the other three individuals who had walked in had shifted into giant and strangely morbid Cheshire cat smiles. Except these weren't the mysterious smiles of a fading riddler, but the blood soaked teeth of a predator.

For a moment, there was nothing, but then Kane laughed and the smiles popped into a multicolored smear of light. "I didn't realize you ITSDA folks had a sense of humor!" He said, hopping to his feet. "I'll kill you quickly, since I think I like you." Three kunai came out of the smeared light, which was spreading rapidly to form an opaque wall between Kane and the Squad sent to capture him. He giggled madly as the holes ripped in his shoulder by the high force metal projectiles filled in, and then charged straight for the wall, stretching out his gift.

Strangely enough, a small section of the room ahead seemed to be... diffusing his gift. He could feel little sparks of life soaking out and being pulled towards him, but it was like sucking a soda threw a ripped straw, and extremely unsatisfying. On the other side of the wall, the Squad had grouped together around David as loosely as possible, but minus Tyler, who had thrown the kunai, they seemed to be doing nothing but watching as Kane slammed into the wall and burst through.

Kane had expected the wall to be fake, so when it provided a small amount of resistance before shattering inwards with the sound of tinkling glass, he tripped. He turned the fall into a fancy roll that impressed even the stoic squad, but when he came back to his feet, he stepped back in surprise as a squad of at least 20 soldiers stared him down with the barrels of his gun. His gift didn't seem to be doing anything to them though, so he immediately turned his attention towards the section of the room that was resisting the pull of his void.

As soon as Kane's gaze fell on his squad, Harry pointed his finger and launched a thin stream of fire which splashed against Kane and the floor around him, catching several of the already dead bodies alight but doing nothing to the illusions, which opened fire. The bullets, although barely having the hardness of glass, were being shot quickly enough to still tear into Kane, where they promptly exploded into shards. Within seconds, Kane looked like shredded beef. 15 of the fake shoulders melted into a small iron maiden.

Kane healed as best he could around the spikes that were shoved into places no sane man wanted spikes shoved, but the pain was very nearly debilitating, and he lost all grasp of his surroundings as he tried to maneuver around enough to keep any of the spikes from being lodged into his brain or spine.

The Squad approached quickly, readying a special sedative that had been found to have worked especially well on Frank Jackson. The giant hammer was unwieldy, but it was a little difficult to keep consciousness when ones brain was splattered across a 10 foot radius. The front of the maiden melted away to reveal a grinning Kane, positioned awkwardly. It was obvious, however, that Kane had something up his sleeve and although Harry shouted for everyone to run, the massive explosion that exploded out of the iron maiden knocked David and Tyler unconscious and killed Henry. You could still drink out of a broken straw, after all, and as soon as Kane had discovered that Harry was the pyrokinetic, he'd sucked as much out of him as he could. The memories were fractured and basically useless, but the fire...

A few moments later as Kane stood up and brushed off his now completely disintegrated clothes, Harry laughed. Kane glanced over, lazily reaching his void out for Harry's soul before it... disappeared. He frowned, but a word pooped into his head immediately that made him grin.

"Dollhouse. Yes, that will be fun."

The room was silent, save for the breathing of the other Gifted. Kane wasted no time, relaxing his legs and drawing his knives as he dropped from the chandelier with an ominous jingling sound.

Both knives dug into the shoulders of the soldier in the back of the group and Kane stood up immediately. Kane smiled like a snake as he used the knives to both disable the agent's arms and shield himself from the other agents.

"Aggh!" David screamed, his arms locked in place by the blades. The three other soldiers circled around Kane.

"YOLO!" whooped the lunatic. But his wide-eyed, toothy grin soon melted into a snarl as the three agents' smirked at him.

"Bet you fuckers think you're pretty funny," said Kane as David disappeared into a smear of various colors.

"Funnier than you," said a second soldier, Harry.

Harry held out his hand, palm open, and snatched something from Kane's direction. Suddenly, a bright blue flame erupted from within Kane, lighting up the whole room. The third agent, Tyler, choked audibly. The room was covered in a pool of blood deep enough to crawl up the soldier's boots. There were innumerable corpses littering the floor and tables; some were slashed up like a Friday the 13th extra, others were unblemished but lifeless.

Reeling from the pain, Kane dropped his knives and fell to the ground. The flames seared him, but they weren't life-threatening in the least. He turned back, skin crawling back across his face, and tackled Henry, the squad's apparent leader, through a wall. Pure blackness crawled out of his veins as a vortex burst from his arm and grabbed hold of Henry. Standing back up as the flames died around him and spread to the carpet below, he grabbed the man by the throat. The vortex emerging from Kane seemed to be tearing Henry apart; the soldier's eyes began to darken and his gaze lost focus.

Henry struggled and squirmed, took a deep breath, and slashed his hand through the air. Kane's arm was gone! The beastly man's vortex swirled to a stop and Harry fell to the floor, coughing and heaving.

Kane stared at the arm, feeling the pain, feeling that his arm truly was gone. He seemed curious as to why it wasn't regrowing. He turned to look at Henry and growled.

"You don't amuse me," he said, snarling like a rabid dog. "How about I kill you first, so your brother can watch you die as he bleeds out?"

Henry stumbled back in horror, and Kane's arm returned in full. He grinned.

"Gotcha!" The Vortex lunged out from his body and wrapped the agent in its embrace. In the few seconds he had before the life was torn from his friend, Tyler used his super-speed to take aim and throw a dozen kunai at Kane. Kane stumbled back, even howling in pain as one a knife pierced his spinal column, but he just would not fall! After about ten seconds, Henry Duvet crashed to the floor, cold and dead.

Kane briefly admired the "beautiful" sight of his own handiwork, then observed the remaining agents exchanging hand signals.

"Ooh, I've got one for ya'!" said Kane, knocking on his own head and then flipping off the trio.

Harry pushed his hands together, facing great invisible resistance, then flung them apart several times. Immediately afterward, Kane's limbs, one by one, erupted into flames. The impossibly hot flames licked off the killer's skin and tore open the muscles and sinew beneath it.

"Raarrrgggh!" Kane's face, which barely rose above the thick cloud of smoke engulfing his body, warped itself into a smile and he giggled with sadistic joy. Is that your only trick?"

Tyler dove up into the air, sailing only inches above the back of Kane's head. Kane felt a crack, and suddenly, his neck was turned 180 degrees. He dropped, unable to move.

"Ahh! Ow, owww! What the hell, man? Kane's neck clicked back into position, taking several tries to do it properly. He stood, massaging it. "Dick move, Tyler. Dick move."

He looked at the remainder of the squad. All three of them were standing between Kane and the bleeding lump on the floor. He slapped his hand to his face and shook his head while trying to hold back a laugh.

"Fireworks and speed will hardly help you at this point, boys."

The trio drew machine pistols.

"Oh, well those might," he admits. Kane steps aside, disappearing and simultaneously creating a replica of him where he stood. A storm of bullets began to rip through the illusion, turning it's upper torso and head into mush.

Stepping around them while Harry torched the "corpse" with twin jets of flame, Kane walked up between Harry and David and tapped them both on the shoulders.

The flames stopped as the two soldiers looked at each other, thinking the other had tapped them. Kane's fists crashed into each of them, breaking Tyler's jaw like a twig. He stepped on Henry's fallen pistol and knocked it up high enough for him to grab it by the handle. Barely aiming, he fired off the whole clip at Tyler, who was too dazed to dodge properly and fell back into a table.

Just then, an immense pillar of flame ripped through Kane's guts, pinning him to the floor and painting the room with even more gore. In his mind, the pain that washed over him was exquisite. Lashing out, the power he'd stolen from Henry triggered. The flames appeared to reverse, drowning their user in their embrace. Kane's blackened body began to repair itself as Harry was crushed by his own flames, his screams no louder than the whoosh of the inferno eating him alive.

"Harry! Hold fast, it's an--!" David called out to his comrade, made himself a target. That was a mistake. David soon saw the room fill with copies of Kane. The mob of maniacs approached him slowly, savoring the fear in the eyes of their plaything.

"No!" screamed David defiantly. "I know Henry's power. You're not real!"

The mob of Kanes encircled David, taunting and breathing heavily all at once.

"But I am!" said a voice behind the soldier. Kane shoved his fingers into David's eyes, trying to gouge them out and shrieking with brutal fury. David cried out in pain as his fingers glowed with energy that quickly changed color from yellow to red. Before Kane knew what hit him, a dozen copies of David tackled him to the ground. They slammed his head onto the sharp edge of a table, broke his ribs with a stanchion pole, and bit and clawed at every bit of his exposed flesh... but not for long.

Kane rose in an eerie, inhuman fashion. His flesh strung itself back onto his body as he stood. The illusions standing beside him exploded into wispy clouds of air. He was bleeding from dozens of holes on his body, and David could tell he was enjoying it. In horror, David took several careful steps back, keeping his terrified eyes trained on the monster. He knew from experience that if a soldier like himself panicked in front of an enemy like this for even a second, he was as good as dead.

Harry stood behind David, counting down from 5 and staring at Kane's arms...

As soon as Harry finished mouthing the number 1 to himself, Kane snatched David up. The flames that instantly enveloped Kane's face, arms, and torso swallowed David whole, burning him down to the bone in the span of about five seconds. A satisfied Kane then used his vortex to drain David's soul, burped, and chuckled lightly.

Brushing off the flames on his arms as if they were bits of dust, he turned to the last man alive, Harry. He jumped over to him before he could react, grabbing him by the head. The very skin of Kane's burnt fingers peeled off, revealing fresh scales underneath that swelled with blood and muscle as his body repaired itself.

"Get off me, you monster!" Harry shouted, properly terrified, yet enraged. The whole squad had been dispatched in mere minutes before him, and all Kane did was smile as the darkness began to deepen and the flames that killed David died out.

"Guess what?" Kane asked, his grin excessively wide, as his cheeks were gone.

"What?" Harry asked, breathing heavy.

As the cold claw of Kane's vortex wrapped itself around him and tore the life from the ITSDA agent, he said, almost too eager to answer...

"Chicken butt."

Kane looked pleased with himself, until he pieced together the little fragments of knowledge he'd acquired from his kills. The Dollhouse. These were fragments; those wormy little bastards survived!

"Oh, you sonsabitches. You can't flim-flam the zim-zam!"

Summoning up all the willpower his psychosis would allow him, Kane created an illusory bomb and guided it using David's ability. He reversed the power of The Dollhouse to project the bomb into the motel room, where it flooded everyone there with the pain of every injury Kane could remember.

The bodies of the agents vanished as he felt it go off. Knowing that while he couldn't find or kill them, he'd reduced a squad of agents optimized to try and kill him to screaming lunatics, Kane was satisfied. He picked his wallet out of his wrecked suit, put on one of the staff's spare tuxedos, and walked straight out of the building.

He found, much to his surprise, that there were no agents ready to prevent his escape outside. He scoffed.

"Smooth, operators." He proceeded to hail a taxi and snake his way back off the world's radar.

For now, The ITSDA was defeated and Kane Isiah Armani, one of the world's most prolific terrorists, remained at large.
This message was last edited by the GM at 02:51, Sat 24 Oct 2015.

Mary Cowan sighed as she stood up from the last of the Squad, her eyes full of disappointment. She'd known from the beginning that they would lose, of course. Tge ITSDA may have thought themselves prepared, but she'd known Kane for far too long. She'd followed him since the beginning, since he murdered her family right in front of her. But he didn't see her. Or he did and he'd left her for the fun.It was hard to tell with that man. Her carefully detailed story with the Squad had given him just the right amount of information. Every time she'd gone after this man, she was different. A Different name, different personality. Different everything. That was the gift of her dollhouse that no one but her knew. She'd lost herself so often, changed herself into someone else so much, that the only thing remaining of her personality was the burning rage and the desire to kill Kane. Somewhere on the shelves of her dollhouse, there was a little girl named Bridget who had died 3 years ago. The woman here now, standing over four men with snapped necks, was Dollhouse. With a wicked smile, the woman who had once been Mary Cowan lit a match and tossed it at one of the beds, the life fleeing her eyes long before the quickly spreading fire enveloped her body.

The video Dieter watched was pieced together from several cameras from all over the hotel. The man's rampage warranted his attentions, but not his direct intervention. Kane was a know quantity. He liked to think he was random and chaotic, but his was as quantifiable as any other natural disaster or terrorist act. Dieter watched the video twice slowly and also had technical analysts working to quantify and add to the database on the man.

He was also tracking the taxi that the man had entered. It hadn't been hard to manipulate that situation at all. While the battle royale was going on inside like some slasher flick come to life, Dieter had made it so that the only taxis outside the casino were from the three companies owned by Schwartze Augen or allies of his. Thus, the lowjack on the taxi the man was in was blinking on on of his monitors. The man in the cab was unaware of this all, of course. Placing any knowledge near Kane was a risk to be managed, so the driver knew only that he had been rerouted to that hotel. He didn't even know that the man in the back seat was dangerous beyond the vibes he gave off.

No, Dieter had little interest in a juggernaut like Kane. Let the storm rage and blow, let the madman have his fun, then clean up afterwards and move on with the plans. Schwartze Augen was still meant to be low profile in Las Vegas, not taking down international terrorists. Still, if they could get a bead on where he might appear next, that would be for the best. What interested him more was the disappearing corpses of the ITSDA agents as the word 'Dollhouse.' He set his resources to backtracking the van that had delivered them immediately. It wasn't hard as Las Vegas' cameras were everywhere and SA had long ago tapped into most of them through legal or illicit means. This was a new quantity and one much more interesting to him.

He soon had the hotel and the room number.

A black van pulled up to the inferno of a room and four Ghouls poured out. They watched it burn but saw no one appear. They reported in, which caused the fire department to be notified the hotel fire was a hoax, then approached the room. Using small devices shaped like fire extinguishers, they made short work of the inferno. SA technology was quite advanced after all. Three then began their investigation even as the fourth approached and bribed the clerk. Inside five minutes, samples were taken, all video footage was secured, and the team was gone.

Sin city's foot traffic moved like a tide, lines of excited tourists flooded over areal walkways to bypass the strips heavy traffic, barged past the persistent ticket-pushers who seemed to hawk their wares at every hour of the day, and through the endless showrooms and stores that gave Las Vegas it's reputation as a commercial hub.
Among such a crowded and unregulated backdrop it should have been impossible for the wealthy Nevada casinos to guarantee their security, but an array of networked security cameras, automated facial recognition systems, and several private armies of security guards all served to keep a light handed but firm grip of order over the city.

The casinos weren't the only one with eyes on Sin City. Presently, several thousand glowing red pupils watched every movement from afar; someone was arguing with a craps dealer over weighted dice, a couple were talking loudly over not-coffees at Starbucks, a squad of policemen were standing outside a seedy motel room and scratching their heads over a recent fire, someone was trying to sell canceled tickets to see the 'Man Mountain' at an exhibition match... and someone with an obscuring pair of sunglasses was climbing up a rusted fire escape and into the administration floor of one of the deserts many supercasinos.

---

A security guard strolled back to his terminal, having left mere moments ago to refill his mug of joe. With a practiced and inattentive action that'd been honed through years of routine he pulled out his well worn office chair, collapsed heavily into it, swigged a mouthful of caffeine, and turned his eyes to the numerous display screens encircling his desk.
Over a long career the security guard had learnt to look out for the obvious signs of trouble that demanded his attention, and with news filtering in about various acts of violence happening around the city he was even watching with an especially wary eye, but tonight his cameras didn't seem to offer him anything out of the ordinary; drinking tourists, gambling tourists, tourists watching shows and tourists shopping.

In fact the only thing that even pricked his attention in the slightest wasn't on his monitors at all, but on his desk. A small metal sphere sat innocently in his desk tidy, with a dull grey 'pupil' set into it's front face. A desk toy, probably. Left behind from the last guards shift.

"Hello there!" He spoke to the toy in the paradoxical tone of excited indifference that bored people reserved for inanimate objects and distractions. "What do you do?"
As if in answer the sphere's eye flickered to a glowing blue, and emitted a growing warning tone, before bursting into a shower of sparks and arcing electricity. The guard spilt heavily sugared coffee over his desk and collapsed face first over his keyboard.
'ghfytyr555555555555555555555555555-'

An anarchic figure detached herself from the dark corner behind the monitor rooms door and was joined by several dozen cycloptic familiars who winked themselves out from their hiding places with flashes of red light. She pushed the guard onto the floor and off his seat, which she took for herself.

"Sorry about that."
She told the unconscious guard brusquely. She wouldn't normally bother, but a recent brush with electricity on her own part convinced her to show some sympathy.
"Okay... show me what you've got."

The intruders fingers danced over the guards terminal as she accessed the casinos systems.
Like most casinos her target subscribed to a system of Biometric databases that allowed them to identify habitual gamblers, high rollers, V.I.P's, cheats, and criminals. Entry onto the database was usually done by hand, although being flagged by it was automatic.
Since the guard had remained logged into his account it was childishly easy for Oculus to find her own entry and delete it. It was so straightforward that it hardly even qualified as 'hacking'.
Before she quit the office she ran several more names and faces through the system, and over CCTV records for the past six months; knowing which Gifted were coming and going from the city would be invaluable information- particularly if the sames faces that appeared weren't registered with any of the 'Powered exhibitions' within the city.
This message was last edited by the player at 21:56, Sat 19 Dec 2015.

Blue Horizon Security was an office located on the eleventh floor of a gleaming steel and glass building. The offices were unassuming and plain but hummed with activity. Few suspected from a glance that the firm contracted and coordinated security for several of the cities armored car services, banks, hotels, and casinos.

In an office at the back, a man with a shaved head, heavy-set figure, and strong Ethiopian accent took a phone call, listened silently for a few seconds, then nodded. The plaque on his desk declared him to be Simon Smith, CEO.

A phone rang and the man looked at the blocky black thing on his desk sitting silently, then pulled out his personal cellphone and glared at it, then opened a locked drawer and pulled out another cellphone. He sighed as he answered it, "Ya?"

He listened for a long time and nodded silently. He hung the phone up and, after a second's hesitation, placed it in his breast pocket. He then stood and went to open his door, "Up and at 'em boys. Orders from home office." The various bits of busywork stopped as the man stepped out of his office and began to bark orders. Feet hit the pavement and within thirty minutes, a small convoy pulled out of the garage downstairs and onto the route for Berkley. It consisted of 3 humvees nominally road legal for the united states and a large truck. In each humvee was a unit of four men who would have been familiar except they lacked the characteristic SA armor and gear. The truck had the gear necessary for the mission as Dieter had ordered it to follow Meta directives. The convoy would rendezvous with no one associated with the transport team. Instead, it would be working along the route in various places to be ready for worst-case-scenarios.

---

In his office in the casino, Dieter hung up a phone with only a single button and grunted. He chose to stare for a long time at a portrait of a woman and let himself choke out a single, solitary sob. He then began to make calls. He needed to know which of his fellow Namidians were targeting this convoy. The list of Namidians wasn't too short, but there was a very short list of those he would not cross. He had plans and plans and plans in place for such contingencies though.
This message was last edited by the player at 17:00, Wed 22 June 2016.

Orleans Arena. PCC Presents: Gifted Exhibition Matches.

“Feel the sting of El Macho Malo!"

“Phoenix, PU- URK!”

A half naked and offensively sweaty man in a luchadors mask sprang from the elastic robes bordering the two Gifted's battlefield, and used the momentum from his lunge to clothesline Phoenix with his bicep. Crimson went down clutching at his neck with a choke, the floor of the wrestling ring beneath him shook violently as he crashed off it, and then found himself trapped in a painful headlock as Macho took advantage of his successful strike to pin Crimson to the ground!

“I'm getting worked up mi amigo! Is that all you have for me?!”

The watching crowd cheered wildly, cameras flashed, and the referred started slapping the floor by Crimsons imprisoned face as he counted backwards from ten. The massive LED screens above and surrounding the brawl zoomed into the action and started counting down as well.

"Ma' gawd! It’s a bloodbath out there!” an announcer cried out, with only -just- too much enthusiasm to sound plausible.

The giant displays rendered Phoenixes struggling face in enough detail so that even the back rows could see the effort etched into his features. Suddenly Crimson managed to get both feet back under him , and a flash of two small explosions sent the referee and Macho both staggering exaggeratedly backwards as the ITSDA's assault specialist was propelled seven feet into the air by the force of his own escape, somersaulted gracefully in the air at the arc of his jump, and landed on his feet with both fists already raised. Combat ready! The crowd went ballistic again.

“There it is! I knew that Crimson was holding out on us!” A second commentator enthused!

“Not bad for his first time in the ring!” The first comment or returned, before delivering some hasty exposition. “Remember, Macho has the ability to dampen the powers of whoever he touches, and they've already lasted four rounds! If Crimson's Gift hadn't run dry before, it has now!”

“That might be! Let’s find out!”

Back in the ring both fighters were trading blows. Macho had both size and reach, but Phoenix knew how to counter those advantages with speed and footwork. He lunged forward beneath one of Malo's arm swipes and delivered a heavy punch into the luchadors chest, which was received and returned by a powerful shin kick that took both of Crimsons forearms to block. Phoenix scarcely has time to shake the numbness from his arms as Macho recovered his feet, and grab the competing wrestler by the shoulders. The grapple was returned, and both men tried to throw the other to the mat by sheer strength alone. The crowd started to chant the names of both combatants, the fans of each trying to drown out the other, as both Gifted sumo'd it out for superiority.

A klaxon blared to signal the end of the match, the crowd groaned their disappointment but applauded the fight nonetheless. Both fighters broke apart from their grapple, only to return and shake hands sportingly a moment later. Crimson was grinning ear to ear, The jaguar sequined onto Macho's mask didn’t betray any particular expression but his body language seemed to agree that the exhibition fight had been a good one.

---

Ten minutes later. Crimson had cleaned up from his bout, and some helpful venue orderlys had even cleaned the ring of the damage it had sustained during the fight. He had a break before his next match, but rather than sit and rest he eagerly found a space to watch the next match and appreciate the excited vibe that'd permeated the entire showroom with undisguised delight. The whole things was, after all, organised on his request.

Dozens of fighters and thousands of spectators had turned out for his event. It was the first time that Phoenix had attempted to engage with the world of Gifted sport fighting- but even so he had been very careful not to upstage the entire show. A third party recruiter had been used to find the fighters, and there seemed to be a healthy mixture of professional 'sportsmen' and armature newcomers. The night was just now starting with a series of 'show' matches that followed the same choreographed style as professional wrestling or other legitimate Vegas Gifted shows, and towards the end of the night there was to be a small tournament which followed a less scripted MMA format- but would still hopefully end without anyone sustaining serious injury or going 'too' wild with their Gifts. The matches themselves were being televised live on a few select channels, as well as streamed online, and guests had the option to see the entire spectacle in person from either the bleachers or from a limited number of V.I.P boxes.

Hosting the event had been a stroke of genius, in Crimsons opinion. Besides being beneficial for the public’s perception of Gifted, and buying himself a little more time in the media limelight, Crimson had also been adamant that his own profits from the show go to a charity he had established for the rebuilding of Chicago. Everything from the entry tickets, to donations, to in-house bets, and even merchandising was meant to play a part in undoing some of the damage that Namidias had done to the windy city all those months ago. He had been endorsing his charity relentlessly over the last few weeks; but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was always more to do, and more ways for him to try and achieve the 'heroic image' that he so desperately sought...

Later that evening, two figures stood a few feet apart within the MMA cage. A svelte, young "pretty boy" boxer with a mop of yellow hair stared upward into the eyes of a towering wrestler. While the larger man moved in tactically, leaning in slightly to better protect his core, the pretty boy cockily licked his lips and stepped back. It was a challenge, the wrestler knew. But he wouldn't take the bait! Lunging forward without leaving his feet, the thoughtful brawler feigned a grab and easily blocked the kid's tremendous uppercut!

When glove met skin, the wrestler's right arm began to glow a deep, dull red color. In an instant, the boy jumped back as his boxing glove burst into flame! Hoots and hollers from the crowd turned the boxer's face sour as he whipped his glove aside in a single, smooth motion. The boxer strafed out of his enemy's reach and side-stepped a pair of dramatic clutches. The kid frowned; he hated being baited.

The crowd bathed the arena in boos and jeers, drowning the patient fighters in petty hatred. The boxer didn't give a fuck about the crowd; he'd wait for a real damned opening and take it! Another strafe and the beast-man slammed him against the cage wall.

CLANG! The back of his skull bounced off the steel bar and landed right back in the wrestler's grip. The grease in his hair turned to little flakes of snow and the boy's features literally began to freeze in place. His dark eyes glowed with hatred as they focused on the Gifted wrestler. With a few swings of his arms, he freed them from the freeze. And then he took a couple swings. He fired off a simple, nearly-pointless pair of "back off" jabs to the stomach. The wrestler scoffed, then the boxer struck again. And then he struck again and again and again until what were harmless jabs became an endless stream of insect bites tearing away at the man's flesh!

The wrestler hopped back, gripping his stomach. It was already too late! The boxer fired off a couple light-speed jabs to the head, then repeated the same motion endlessly. He moved not with inhuman speed, but impossible repetitiveness. He was a machine, tirelessly cranking out copies of the exact move that he wanted to hit. And hit he did. Three hundred blows to the dome cracked the wall of ice the wrestler had formed around his own head in desperation. Two hundred more put him down for good. At two minutes and twenty seconds, the referee called for a knockout.

Medics swarmed around the wrestler. The Gifted boxer didn't even glance at his battered opponent. He just slicked his hair back with one hand as the referee raised the other.

"Your winner, by knockout, of this first round Gifted Warfare Tournament matchup: Remy 'Combo' Ramirez!"

After soaking in the glory for a few moments and raising his fists to the sky, Combo snatched the microphone from the referee's hands.

"Bet you never saw fight like this outta Phoenix and his flunkies!

The crowd oohed. Some booed, others cheered.

"Yeah, you got it. Phoenix, buddy, these people ain't rubes anymore. They know their money's gonna get wired right to the dirtiest players in the game; they just don't see any alternatives. But there is one. How about we change the rules a little? To the victor go the spoils. That is to say, when I win this tournament, I'll take home more than the gold. I'll take the money he's stealing from you and rebuild Chicago myself! What do you say, huh?"

With the help of some rhetorical trickery, the little bastard got the crowd to roar at the suggestion of him taking the money meant for a trusted non-profit foundation. Perhaps some thought it was all part of some act. Still, in a bit of twisted irony, many people trusted the word of a thug over the men and women who had given up everything, even their reputation, in service to them.

The public demanded a response. The only question was: what kind of response was Phoenix going to give them?
This message was last edited by the GM at 06:25, Sun 15 Jan 2017.

As the fight between 'Combo' and his opponent carried on Crimson had watched from the 'Contestants Box'- a V.I.P area that had been set aside to let the Gifted charity fighters mingle and socialise before their bouts, hold press statements, refresh themselves, and take a privileged view of the completions currently in progress.

"That one's pretty good. I bet the media would love to see more of him... do you think that I should do my agent a favour and pass him her number?"

While keeping warm between matches Phoenix was dressed in a boxers robe, which he wore over his kevlar under-suit. He had forgone his ceramic armour for these fights to make himself appear more 'heroic'. The robe had a golden Phoenix sequined onto it's back, and the robe itself was inevitably crimson in colour. Daniel lowered his robes hood and offered a hopeful grin to the man he'd talked to, as he awaited an answer.

"You only like him because he reminds you of you, Mi Amego."
Macho Malo replied with a smirk. With his mask still affixed to Macho's face the expression was almost missed. The luchador had received a rising bruise on his temple from his bout with the ITSDA agent, although he didn't seem to hold it against the other man.
"...Cocky. Young. Blonde. Stupid. Prettyboy..."
Well. Maybe Macho held onto his grudge little.

Crimson snorted in self-derisive laughter. He could take a joke, so long as it was delivered by a friend. He shot one back and extended his tongue mockingly.
"Hah! All that I got from that is that you think I'm pretty."

They watched the match play out it's final moments. The ice-based abilities of 'Combo's' opponent were formidable, but the kid seemed to have a few tricks up his sleeve as well. At a glance Phoenix guessed that he was some kind of speedster, although one that seemed to be at their most powerful when taking the same action multiple times. For a boxer that kind of ability could be devastating.

The referee called an end to the battle and raised the victors hand ceremoniously to announce his victory. The battles end also signalled the end of Crimsons interest, and he turned his back on the arena to go and review who was slated for the next event-



-Phoenix Crimson froze in place. He kept his back turned on the arena, but his entire attention had rushed to his suddenly burning ears! Combo's voice rung out from the venue's telecom and filled the hall completely, drowning out even the intense cheering and boo-ing from the crowd.



Phoenix didn't move for a long moment. The relaxed air of the Contestants Box had suddenly solidified into cold laser-focused attention that was fixed firmly onto Crimson himself. Some of the other fighters waited to see how he would respond whilst refusing to meet his eye, whilst the media reporters sharing the V.I.P area watched with far less disguised interest. A journalists pen clicked softly as it's owner primed it over his notepad.

Phoenix shivered slightly. Macho Malo looked at the ex-vigilante's expression expecting to find anger, but instead only found a look of incredible excitement that Daniel was trying very hard to suppress.

"Crimson... You owe that man nothing. Don't let him get under your skin..."
The Luchador spoke softly. Almost pleadingly. The man knew how easily Phoenix's sense of pride was provoked.

"I owe him a fat lip!"
Crimson muttered harshly, though not loud enough for anyone but Macho to overhear. The Lucador shot him a concerned look.
"Relax. Malo. I won't do anything brash- I promise."
The sound of the excited crowd surrounding the stage intensified.
"...but I can't let him keep ranting on. I'd better put a stop to this before he works up the crowd any further."

With that, Phoenix shrugged his shoulders and let his robe fall to the floor. He stretched his arms and got a feel for his Kevlar suit, and felt satisfied that the strains and pains he had taken from his last battle were superficial enough to be simply ignored. If he ended up getting badly hurt he had already planned to go and whine to Sherry, or Brianna, after all. He turned on his heel back to the viewing balcony, uncoiled the crimson scarf from around his neck and flicked it over his shoulder, and took a running leap from it into the open air above the spectator stands!

A cacophony of flashy explosions followed Phoenix's arc from the viewing stands to the combat area! When the Agent finally touched down, just infront of 'Combo', it was with a blast of hot energy and a fireworks display of mid-air adjustments that he finally confronted the loudmouthed Boxer who had called him out. 'Combo' had chosen not to handle this from behind closed doors, and so Phoenix felt no shame in making a spectacle of his response.

"That money isn't mine to give- although I doubt you'd be able to take it from me!"
Crimson over-dramatically snatched the microphone from Combo's hand, playing up the showmanship that was expected of any Gifted in the ring. The trash talking felt a little overdone even as he said it, but he also knew that modesty wasn't a trait that tested well with the Media. The tone of Crimsons voice had also changed in timbre from his conversation with Malo; it was as if Phoenix put on a new, more idealistic, persona whenever the public at large was watching.
"Why should I take your bet? The rest of us are fighting for honour, and justice, and for those affected by the barbarians at our gates!- what right do you have to claim the spoils of their efforts? What have you put at stake?!"

"Me? I've put my life at stake by publicly challenging the world's largest terrorist group."


The crowd murmured and grumbled in response to his wild accusation. Couples argued, friends shushed each other, and everyone watched the tension build in front of their very eyes.

Combo leaned right in to Phoenix's face, splashing the agent with saliva as the boxer hissed his venomous words and locked eyes with the enemy.

"No, let me finish! That gang of yours tore Gaultown, Chicago, and New York apart with no thought as to who'd die because of your little war! And you're doubtin' my ethics? Nah. I'll take the prize and actually use it."

The young man took a few steps back while sections of the crowd began to cheer, lightly at first, then grow louder and louder until they drowned out the voices of dissent. Finally, he held up one hand and blocked his view of Phoenix's face.


"Okay, I take that back. Ya probably didn't ignore all the deaths you'd cause. Ya wanted 'em. The bleaker it gets, the more people need protection. Your protection. Ain't that right, son?"

As if to dismiss the genuine hero, the low-level Gifted turned his back on Phoenix and began to walk away. Turning to the audience after he marched a few feet off the stage, he waved his gloved hand over the crowd.


"Just remember who you trust more when I nab the trophy and everything will be okay."

He beamed at the crowd before turning his head back on Phoenix Crimson one more time...

Pheonix grit his teeth and bit back a spiteful reply as Combo threw insane accusations at him and his fellow agents. The excited crowd wasn't helping to settle his temper, but Crimson forcefully reminded himself that Combo wasn't his enemy... Not quite, at any rate. The man was one of his guest fighters and deserved a modicum of respect just for that, and if his claims about risking his life in the name of heroism were true then Dan knew that he would never be able to bring himself to see the boxer as his enemy- no matter how wrong he was. The agents black-and-white morality faltered, but ultimately held.

"That's a damn lie! If you think that I profit from the Namidian wave then you really don't have a clue what me and 'my gang' stand for!"

Crimson stopped just shy of directly aligning himself with the ITSDA. Phoenix had avoided doing so in the past, but from Combo's accusations it seemed to already be an open secret. He hadn't exactly been subtle about standing up for his organisation or teammates, and certainly Namidias knew of his association... by now the only person who seemed to be unwilling to admit that Phoenix Crimson was a part of the ITSDA peacekeepers was Phoenix himself. It was more for the ITSDA's benefit than for his own, since he didn't want his teammates to be held accountable for his virtuous but less-than legal past life.

Combo didn't seem to care to hear Crimsons retort, and turned away to leave his final accusation hanging heavily in the air. The crowd didn't care to hear it either, and the boo's and jeers they had directed at him intensified as Phoenix was left standing alone in the ring, exposing him to malice from all sides.
Daniel just didn't get it... how could they possibly be supporting the boxer with the clearly corrupted interests over himself?! The great and mighty Phoenix Crimson!
...sure, his own and the ITSDA's reputation had taken a hit in recent months, but that's what tonight was supposed to address! He was actively trying to show that the good guys cared about those left in the aftermath of their battles, and everyone in the crowd had rallied to support that cause, but now they had turned on him with bared fangs! Why?!

In any case, Crimson at least knew that the charity money was secure. When he'd said that the money wasn't his to give he'd meant that both idealistically and literally; like all charities Crimson and his fellow trustees were legally obliged to follow out the terms of their statement- which most certainly did not include betting millions of dollars of donors money on a profitless pride-bet. The crowd wouldn't like it, but Combo was going to have to settle for the same tournament money as everyone else- though somehow Crimson suspected that the Boxer had already gotten what he'd wanted.

"I just... don't understand."
He said softly, to himself. Beneath his mask his eyebrows knit themselves together in confusion. He'd been in the public eye as a vigilante for almost half his life- and he'd seen his fair share of crowds turning ugly, but usually he could guess why. Tonight the audience simply seemed to be out for blood. He forced himself to conclude that they were simply getting swept away by the venues atmosphere, but even that explanation didn't feel quite right.

He needed to act. He needed to quell the crowds dissatisfaction before it spiralled out of his control. There was only two thing that could be done to master an escalating situation like this... and that was to either fold and accept defeat, or to push the stakes even higher!
"Combo!" Crimson called out in challenge. "-I won't give you Chicago's money, but I'll stake the most valuable thing I have instead!"
Phoenix's hand pointed dramatically at his new enemy, and then slowly touched the mask on his face.
"My identity! Every SINGLE day I put my life and everything I am on the line for what I believe in, and today's no different!"
The crowd was furious, and for a situation like this Crimson had to reach for the highest stakes possible to recapture their attention and respect. Putting everything at stake was a difficult move to make, but it was one that Daniel had made a thousand times before- every time that he'd ever dove into battle.
"Prove to me that you're the hero you claim to be, win the tournament, and I'll remove this... and end Phoenix Crimson. Forever."
His fingers stopped brushing his mask, and returned to pointing a threat to Combo.
"-on the other hand, when I win this tournament I expect you to put your Gift to good use and enlist with my charities repair team- and actually follow through on your promise!"
This message was last edited by the player at 20:46, Wed 25 Jan 2017.

Combo bounced around a luxurious backstage gym, artfully dodging baseballs a pitching machine gunned at him. As he groaned and grunted away, he screamed at himself.

"Get it right, motherfucker!"

The huge, 7K television affixed to the roof showed off Asher's grand proposition, but the young boxer's eyes never left his target. In his mind's eye, the entire world slowed to a crawl; the baseballs weren't sailing through the air, they were sliding up a river of wind. Combo barely limboed under a ball. Then, while leaping back up, he swung his fists across each other in an "X" formation, slamming two baseballs out of the sky and into the room's padded walls.

"WHAM! One move, you're done!"

The narcissistic pugilist replayed this duck-and-punch cycle a hundred times without breaking a sweat. Other boxers were great actors, managing to give similarly great performances each and every night they step into the ring. He, however, was an endlessly replayable recording of that one perfect, star-making performance. He was reliable, yet endlessly exciting. That's why those men chose him. He was their up-and-comer. They figured they'd give him all this equipment, line up the matches, and he'd rake in the dough for them. And he would. But once he won the tournament and became an international symbol of Sadim Talent's success, he'd be irreplaceable. Then he could work on his own terms and be, for once in his life, his own boss.

The boy grinned wildly and smacked his fists together. Dozens of crushed baseballs lay all across the gym and the craters they left pock-marked the walls. Suddenly, the man heard his name angrily repeated on the closed-circuit television he so foolishly ignored.
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:25, Sat 15 July 2017.

The Mighty nodded to the show tech who was standing nearby, waiting on him.  The man immediately spoke into his headset, and the Mighty’s chosen theme music for the night boomed across the sound system.^*

I’ll have you know
That I’ve become
Indestructible

Bounding down the entrance ramp, the Might’s bare feet thudded heavily on impact, his greater than normal mass making the structure vibrate under his passage.  He waved the crowd, a smile on his face, and effortlessly hopped into the ring as the classic metal rumbled through the arena.

Determination that is incorruptible
From the other side
A terror to behold
Annihilation will be unavoidable

He enjoyed playing up to the crowd, who now knew him a little better than they had during his first appearance earlier in the event, an exhibition match that had slated him against a tiny blonde girl who went by Hop, Skip, and Jump.  He shook his head slightly in amusement as he recalled their scripted encounter – his own, massive self versus the girl who could split herself into a short-ranged teleporting trio of opponents.  Each one three times as strong as a normal person, and when they worked together could exert nine, or twenty-seven times as much force as they should – squares and cubes, combined with their high mobility, it made her a fairly effective fighter.

He was pretty sure in a straight-up fight he could have taken her regardless, but the script had called for her to win, and he hadn’t had any objection.  It made for good theatre, and he could certainly appreciate that.

Every broken enemy will know
That their opponent had to be invincible
Take a last look around while you're alive
I'm an indestructible master of war….

The music faded out as he mugged for the crowd, working to build back up a positive vibe that had been thoroughly disrupted by the antics of the prior occupants of the ring.  He was wearing a modified version of his usual public outfit – the same stylized ‘M’ shirt as always, and a pair of loose black pants that swirled about his ankles.

He had, as most boys had, grown up watching WWE wrestling and the then-rising star of UFC, and his formative years had been shaped by the influence of such personalities as Stone Cold, and the Rock.  As the arena’s directional microphones focused on him, it was the latter the Mighty consciously channeled as he addressed the crowd.

”Good evening, Las Vegas!” he boomed, his voice rolling out across the crowd, easily reaching to the high seats.  ”In case any of you missed my introduction earlier, I am the Mighty, and yes, I Am Canadian.”  That little joke was a legacy from his youth, and he didn’t particularly care if anyone else got it or not.

“I know that some of you are saying, but Mighty, you’re not a fighter – aren’t you just that guy who gets cats out of trees and pulls people out of burning buildings?” he went on, warming to the task and enjoying himself immensely as he turned to face another section of stands.

He shrugged eloquently.  ”I can’t argue with you, I don’t make a habit of getting into fights with people,” he admitted.  ”That’s a good way to get a lot of other people hurt, in my opinion.  There’s usually a better way.”

He smiled.

”I know that some of you are saying, but Mighty, you just said that you’re Canadian!  Doesn’t that mean you’re all nice, and kind, and polite?”  His voice on those particular adjectives turned snide and dismissive.

Looking about, he nodded knowingly, his lips pressed together and eyes wide in classic Johnson.

”And I have to say…you’re right.  I am a nice guy, and I am going to be polite,” he told the crowd, sweeping his arms apart expansively.  ”I will say please, when I invite my opponent into the ring,” he stated simply, gesturing towards the edge of the ring.  ”I will say thank you, for the opportunity to kick some American ass,” he went on, his voice growing strident.  ”And I will say sorry, after beating your pathetic self into the mat, as I offer you my hand to get you back on your feet!” he bellowed, pantomiming just that as the crowd erupted into a mixed roar of approval and outrage, hands waving and signs being shaken in enthusiasm.

Pulling himself to his full, not inconsiderable height, the Mighty pointed dramatically up the entrance ramp, eyes shining with enjoyment and anticipation.

”I’m calling you out – get down here, and let’s get this party started!”  Hooking the fingers of one big hand into the neck of his shirt, he tore it from his body like it had been made of wet tissue, revealing a torso that could have been sculpted using an anatomy textbook as a guide, all smooth muscle and perfect tone.

Dropping briefly into a most muscular pose that made his body swell and ripple in a very impressive manner, he whirled his shredded shirt above his head and tossed it into the crowd before turning his outstretched hands palms up and gestured for more enthusiasm from the obliging crowd.



^*https://youtu.be/aWxBrI0g1kE?t=1m
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:43, Sat 15 July 2017.

Stageside:

Phoenix strode his way into the main hall. He pushed past press and security orderlies, and shrugged his shoulders and neck in an effort to recoup a little of his abandoned warmup exercises.

The claustrophobic and tight hallways of the backstage and muffled bass of distant action suddenly gave way to open air, flashing lights, and the booming sound of cheers as Mighty's blaring introduction instantly surged the crowds adrenalin!
Daniels mood swelled as well, and his troubled thoughts were put aside for a moment as the Agent actually found himself grinning when the Gifted Canadian threatened to kick some American asses, all whilst hamming up his own stereotypes. Canada was a long way to travel, and Crim was glad to see that The Toronto Titan had been able to make it... the man might be upstaging all the other competitors, but the crowd were into it, and that's all that mattered for the moment.

The man then tore off his shirt and threw it into the crowd... Okay. That was gratuitous.

The runway beneath the stage was littered with waiting combatants. There were a few dozen Gifted who had gotten this far into the night, and like any league-style event there was an element of unpredictability and randomness in who would be matched against who. Crimson had arrived slightly late on account of his earlier poor decisions, but he felt confident that he hadn't arrived -too- late to make an embarrassing scene. He looked across from Mighty and the central fighting ring, to lay eyes onto the master tournament board to see who he'd be facing off against, and when.
He reminded himself that all he -needed- to do was to prevent either Combo or Metal Wraith from winning the night, and that every other fight afterwards was just for the sake of charity- but seeing the Canadian in the middle of his ring mouthing off so cockily re-ignited a spark of competition in Phoenix. The former vigilante suddenly felt as though he may as well go all out- it was all for a good cause, right?
This message was last edited by the GM at 20:49, Sat 15 July 2017.

Oblivious to the event’s host’s disapproval of his amateur antics, the Mighty mugged for the crowd for a moment more before the shattering, frenetic beat of grime ripped out through the arena’s sound system.  The assault against his augmented hearing drawing a slight wince from the Mighty as Wayz Above’s hit single ‘Götterdämmed’ heralded the arrival of the next opponent, and he turned to face the access ramp with his formidable arms crossed across his chest.

The man that appeared in the suddenly-descended spotlights was a fair bit younger than the Mighty - perhaps two full decades – and of average height and build at best.  He raised a clenched fist into the air in a salute to the crowd, his buzz-cut head looking from side to side as he gaze swept the arena.  Dressed in urban ‘NBA chic’, shiny black shorts hung past his knees and the billowing black tank top had a fiery red and orange ring on the chest.

This was Eclipse, and as he strode barefoot down the ramp each stride became longer, the top of his head descending less than it should have based on the angle of the ramp.  By the time he was halfway down the shorts had bared his knees, and his shirt had stopped flapping.  When he arrived at ringside shorts and shirt both clung to a muscled torso, and the twelve foot tall Gifted stepped over the ropes like they were the edge of a kiddie pool.

Now towering over the Mighty, he stretched out his arms and turned in a slow circle, the crowd roaring its approval of this response to their northern neighbour’s inflammatory challenge.  As for the Mighty, he had backed off to one corner of the ring to give his opponent room and simply watched, arms still folded.

"You can be polite all you want, old man," Eclipse boomed, his expanded vocal cords producing a rumble worthy of the greats like James Earl Jones, Barry White, and Ving Rhames.  "That sort of thing might fly in the land of moose and syrup, but you’re in Vegas now, you got it?"  He turned to look down at the Mighty, who stood watching him with a faintly amused smile on his face.

Eclipse didn’t seem all that entertained by his opponent’s lack of a concerned reaction,  however, and as they both advanced toward the centre of the ring the much taller youth blocked out several of the venue lights leaving the Mighty in shadow – oh yes, it was pretty obvious where he’d coined his name from.

"Get ready for an ass-kicking, Canadian," He rumbled, leaning in with a sneer on his face.  "Pathetic peace-keeper – no peace for you in this ring." Straightening, he addressed the crowd with the confident ease of one uttering a familiar catchphrase.

"That’s right – when you’re this big, you can’t help throwing shade!" he boomed.  This time, upon looking down he caught a much more satisfying look on the Mighty face – that had gotten under his skin.

"Look, kid," he growled menacingly.  "Stupid puns are my schtick.  Get your own."  The nerve of these young punks these days!  He stepped into a ready stance, right food dropped back and hands raised, open and loose.

The round buzzer shattered the air, and the time for posturing gave way to the fight proper.  Eclipse started, perhaps predictably, with a lunging grab with his long arms and massive hands.  Predictable enough that the Mighty simply ducked under it as he moved forward as well, hunching and stepping left, then right and connecting with a jabbed elbow that caught his opponent on the meat of his right thigh.  The crowd roared at this landing of the first blow, although whether in approval or protest was difficult to sort out.

Spinning around to face Eclipse again, the Mighty took a couple steps back to open the distance between them again.  Eclipse stumbled forward an additional lurching step before catching himself and whirling back around – the blow had obviously pained him.

The Mighty smirked and gestured – an age-old ‘come at me, bro’.  His opponent scowled darkly and launched a looping one-two combo, a right and a left, each of which the Mighty batted away with a two-handed redirect that left the bigger man a little off balance and backing off slightly.

The kid was clearly getting upset at the lack of success his assault was having, and he stepped up his game.  Eclipse gave a sharp, barking yell and stomped his left foot against the mat in an abrupt boom of sound and motion. Shifting his weight immediately, he lashed out with the inside of his right foot, almost like one would kick a soccer ball, and caught the Mighty squarely in the chest.

The – for once - smaller man collapsed a bit around the impact and was thrown back perhaps fifteen feet to land with a rattling thud onto the mat. The crowd roared at this reversal, clearly much preferring the spectacle of massive attacks rather than a simple exchange of blows, and camera flashes flickered across the surface of the mob.

The Mighty shook his head, apparently dazed, and started to roll back to his feet, but wasn’t swift enough as Eclipse took two long strides and slammed him back to the mat with a brutal curb stomp.  Leaning in with one large foot planted firmly in the centre of the Mighty chest, Eclipse smirked down at him.

"Shoulda stayed home, old man," he told him with mock sorrow. Reaching down he grabbed the Mighty by the upper arm and hauled him up, stepping back with the other man dangling like an abused preschooler.  Balling up his other fist, he almost off-handedly punched the Mighty full in the face before slamming him back down to the mat again.

The next minute or so of the bout was quite clearly in Eclipse’s favour.  He landed kicks that sent the Mighty tumbling.  He threw the smaller man with jarring force into the corners, and his looping punches caused his opponent to block with his arms as best he could.  This was not the epic beatdown that the Mighty has suggested was coming – at least, not at his hands.

Finally, Eclipse left the Mighty slowly rising to one knee and turned to the crowd, throwing his head back in laughter.

"This is the best that Canada has to offer?" he boomed, the scorn clear in his voice.  "No wonder this sad sack doesn't fight if he can help it – look at him!"  He levelled a sausage-sized finger at the Mighty, who had made it all the way to his feet now, but was swaying slightly.

"Big, soft, and dumb, just like that frozen wasteland you come from," Eclipse sneered, and with a pair of steps slammed his knee hard into the Mighty's chest.

The impact was a startlingly sharp 'crack', and the Mighty didn't even rock back in place, let alone catapult into the wall.  Eclipse howled in pain, and hobbled around in a circle while profanity spewed from his mouth.

"You bastard!" the huge man spat, and swung another one of his looping punches at the Mighty.  This time, however, the Canadian hero caught the blow in both hands, wrapping his fingers partway around the thick wrist.

"There's a difference between 'doesn't' fight and 'can't' fight," he replied clearly.  "Bub," he added distinctly.  "Something my people have known for decades.  Let me enlighten you."  The muscles in his back and arms flexed, and this time it was Eclipse's impressive bulk that went flying through the air to smash into the reinforced wall of the ring.  The crowd roared in surprise at the reversal, people coming to their feet in an explosion of reaction.

Eclipse came up snarling as the Mighty advanced on him at a walk, and threw himself at the smart-mouthed pipsqueak.  Over half a ton of Gifted flesh came hurtling down, but the Toronto Titan caught handfuls of his opponent's shirt and rolled with the impact, sending him crashing into the opposite wall.  The shirt, unsurprisingly, didn't survive the stresses involved in this maneuver, and flapped torn and loose as Eclipse got to his feet again.

The next exchange of blows was more cautious on the younger man's part, but even though he landed a couple of solid punches they didn't seem to slow the other man down any longer, and it didn't take very long for the crowd to realize that while the earlier portion of the bout had indeed been uneven, it hadn't been so in the direction they'd thought it had been.

Not to say that the blows weren't having any effect – after separating from an exchange, the Mighty wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.  Unfortunately, the impacts seemed to be causing at least as much damage to Eclipse's hands as well, and he was still favouring the knee he had injured earlier.

The Mighty darted a glance at the round clock as it counted down, then advanced in a smooth, loping stride.  Eclipse grabbed at him, but the Mighty took advantage of his smaller stature to slide between the bigger man's legs and roll to his feet behind him.  Eclipse whirled about, and the Mighty caught one of his hands in both of his own.

The huge man slammed to the mat, arm twisted behind him, and the Mighty placed one foot on the small of his back.  It became clear that he had the smallest finger of that big hand locked in his grip, and had it twisted to the point of genuine pain.

"Say uncle," the Mighty suggested in a reasonable tone of voice as the crowd roared, which seemed to infuriate Eclipse.  The big man heaved, and despite the fact that he massed perhaps three times that of the other man and had a significant leverage advantage, he got absolutely nowhere except close to dislocating his own pinky.  It was a bizarre tableau, and likely something one would only see when the Gifted were involved.

"Ah ah ah," the Mighty cautioned, and Eclipse's resultant howl of outrage and pain caused his lips to tighten for a moment.  The prone man abruptly slammed his free hand to the mat repeatedly, tapping out, and the Mighty immediately released his hold and stepped back.  Eclipse seemed to deflate, shrinking back to his original size, anger and humiliation writ large in his posture and expression as he clambered to his feet.  Not a professional fighter, he seemed to have had a lot of personal pride tied up in this match, which had…not gone to his liking.

The match buzzer rang, the referee awarding the bout to the Mighty, and the crowd went…ballistic.  It was hard to tell who was a fan and who was disappointed at the outcome, but there were clearly plenty of both in the arena seating that evening and they were all willing to make lots of noise.  The Mighty lofted one clenched fist into the air in triumph, then lowered it and offered an opened hand to his defeated opponent.

Eclipse stared at the offered hand for a long moment, mouth twitching slightly, then took it for a perfunctory handshake before turning and stalking out of the ring.  One corner of the Mighty's mouth curled up and he raised a hand to the crowd, turning to face all four corners of the auditorium before dropping into a quick, florid bow and bounding out of the ring as well and up the ramp.

All in all…a fun little fight.  It's all about the show, right?

Combo leaned his back on the wall at the top of the entrance ramp. His arms were folded and a sharp, pointed smirk was painted across his half-shadowed face. When the time came and The Mighty marched his way past the waiting crowd of Gifted spectators, Remy didn't join in the cheering. Nor did he fire off a pissed off taunt like a few of the shadier characters did. Instead, the normally mouthy boy simply trailed The Mighty with his eyes as the incredible Canadian strode past him. His fight was up next; even he knew that now was not the time to rile things up.

Just one more fight, thought the renegade pugilist as he sighed softly to himself, And it's go time.

The gaudy, well-lit bracket chart promised all of Vegas an amazing dream match. If he and Phoenix Crimson both won their next fight, they'd face off in the night's semi-finals. And then, oh then, he'd have a surprise for the ITSDA's little doggy. The young man stood at attention and ran his tongue down to a false tooth near the back of his mouth. That little rubber capsule would be his savior. He wouldn't really need it, of course. He could beat the little red bastard on his own. Nevertheless, his agents were right: it paid to have a little insurance.

At last, the booming bass of Remy's rap entrance theme kicked in, rocking the very walls of the ramp and cuing his entrance. The firebrand street tough lazily raised one fist to the sky while yawning with his other hand and casually strolling to the ring. Of course he was pitted against the tourney's biggest tomato can; Crimson wouldn't want him showing off or nothin'!

A wiry, dark-skinned wrestler who called himself "Channel" stood across from him, wearily eyeing the boxer and holding his arms at the ready. Remy shrugged, turned his back on his opponent, and happily waved at both the fans cheering him on and those giving him hell.

"Thank you, thank you," said Combo, taking the time to emphasize each syllable. "It's an honor to kick his ass!"

Combo didn't even bother to turn around as the bell rang and Channel began inching toward him. But as soon as Channel reeled back and prepared to strike, the talented brawler back-flipped over him and launched into his usual routine. An endless stream of haymakers erupted out of the dams that were his two hands.

WHAM! WHAM! Channel stumbled. WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! The amazingly fit man had his head knocked back into the cage. His back slid down its wall and the referee began to move in.

Then, just as the referee bolted inside the cage, Channel's clawed hand tore into the very fist flying at his head. Instantly, its momentum was halted completely. Combo gasped and growled, silently cursing himself for failing to give this sucker's fighter file more than a cursory glance. Channel's other hand launched forward. Somehow, a simple palm strike to the leg hurled Combo back. Flat on his back, with his leg feeling like it was gonna crack in two, he snarled at Channel as the man casually strolled up to him.

"Don't you read?" asked the wrestler, chuckling to himself. "For every action, there is--"

Combo immediately leapt to his feet and into the air, nearly uppercutting the head off of that arrogant asshole! Remy's leg buckled and he fell to one knee the instant he planted his foot down. Fuck! He got one shot in; hopefully that was enough!

Channel took the hit like a champ. Quickly forcing himself back up to his feet, the Gifted Greco-Roman fighter brushed the blood off of his jaw as if it were a handful of crumbs.

"I like you, kid. You've got spunk," said Channel while Remy's gloved fist knocked his bone back into place. "But you won't get far with no skill to back it up!"

"Fuck you," spat the injured Remy at both his opponent and the referee he stared at as he unleashed those words. Spinning around on only one leg, the pugilist rammed his enemy, pulled Channel's head down, and kneed him in the face. Firing off knee strikes as if they were jabs, the wrestler's face was nearly mashed into paste in seconds flat! And still, the man didn't resist. Combo snarled, then smiled as the demon's face was caked in a thick, red ooze. When his enemy's eyes eventually began to glaze over, Combo finally let Channel go.

"There's your skill," shouted Combo. While his guard was down, Channel coiled himself around the boxer like a Boa Constrictor, grappling Remy's arm with inhuman strength and nearly snapping it off. Sickeningly loud crunching, snapping sounds filled the arena.

"EEEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

The crowd stared in horror and began to shriek as the wrestler began choking Combo with his own displaced arm. Yet even as his vision was flooded by shadow, Combo developed a plan. He drug himself and his opponent toward the cage, kicked off of it, and reversed the chokehold into a grapple of his own in mid-air!

"It's over, fucker. Time to die!"

Standing behind the imposing titan who had so crippled him, Combo used every last bit of his strength to slip his one good arm under Channel's. With a leap, the athlete locked both of his knees into the wrestler's back, rolled back, and slammed Channel on the mat head-first. It was a good move, but not enough to break anyone's head.

But one good move was all he needed! Combo kept on rolling back over and over again, dragging Channel across the ring and hurling his head to the ground a dozen times. Only once the wrestler's cracked against the cage's steel bars did Combo halt his assault. A dizzy, bleeding Channel saw but one thing as Combo put him down for the count: a heavy boot stomping down on his face.

As the referee declared his victory, the yelping firebrand brawler stared down at the ground. With his arm shattered and his leg splintered, things just got a lot more complicated for him.

And yet, there was hope... he hated relying on it, but the ITSDA cheaters weren't going to steal this from him! Not now, not after he had come so close. In fact, after they put him in this match, it was only fair for him to even the odds a little.

He nodded when he spotted Phoenix Crimson's name on the bracket. His time had come.

From a private box high in the arena registered to a name that would take rooms of forensic accountants days to attribute to Dieter's organization, a large man watched the matches carefully. Dieter operated within another associates domain due to the strategic importance of Las Vegas as a recruitment center. Long ago, Schwartz Augen had learend that trying to attract Gifted men and women to its cause directly exposed it to dangerous levels of attention, but operating behind the scenes in this mecca of degenerate gambling and Gifted exhibition managed the task quite nicely. It was his job to monitor the various bouts and showes, illicit and legal, for potential. Already, SA had several Gifted performers on retainers or signed to their perfectly legal agency. Well, it was legal as long as no one looked too closely at their accounting.

Dieter grinned as he watched the exhibition. Phoenix Crimson was, by all reports, a worthy adversary. The man had bested Lady Scarlet and Mr. Green. It was a pity about the last.

A sudden chiming had him taking a small nokia phone from his coat and frowning at the message: Mind/Body protocols regarding associate Three. Epistemological delivery iminant. Dieter frowned at the message, shrugged, and returned his attention to the ring. The matches progressing currently were interesting, but a certain match had been arranged and he was eager to see how it resolved itself. Dieter glanced to the tournament board and spotted the name of the ringer he had entered into the tournament: Babae Pula. Not overly creative but it had worked so far as a disguise.

Not sure how this thread is progressing, but let's get it some life!